Post-Prison Writings and Speeches [antikvár]

INTRODUCTIONI last saw Eldridge Cleaver on a Sunday evening in San Francisco, three days before he was scheduled to turn himself in to the California Adult Authority for a pro forma hearing and subsequent shipment to prison. We had left the chaotic warmth of a Chinatown restaurant and were on the corner of Columbus and Pacific streets waiting for the light to change before crossing over for a cappuccino at La Tosca. Chatting about whether or not the Yenching's Princess Chicken was too spicy, we barely noticed the patrol car that slipped around the corner. It stopped suddenly and backed up, the tires squealing. The doors sprang open and two cops jumped out and headed toward Cleaver, hands on holsters, shouting, "What did you call us?" In the confusion, two other patrol cars had pulled up behind us, red lights flashing.Back in the restaurant, Eldridge had tried patiently to explain to me that the guards would see to his death if he went back to prison and that the "pigs" had in fact been trying for the past year to provoke him and)IIv ;ri.( t